Erix. Forbear, Euphrasia, to renew your sorrows.
Eup. My tears have dry'd their source; then let me here,
Pay this sad visit to the honour'd clay,
That moulders in the tomb. These sacred viands
I'll burn an offering to a parent's shade,
And sprinkle with this wine the hallow'd mould.
That duty paid, I will return, my virgins.
[She goes into the Tomb.
Erix. Look down, propitious pow'rs! behold that virtue,
And heal the pangs that desolate her soul.
Enter Philotas.
Phil. Mourn, mourn, ye virgins; rend your scatter'd garments:
Some dread calamity hangs o'er our heads.
In vain the tyrant would appease with sacrifice
Th' impending wrath of ill-requited Heav'n.
Ill omens hover o'er us: at the altar
The victim dropp'd, ere the divining seer
Had gor'd his knife. The brazen statues tremble,
And from the marble, drops of blood distil.
Erix. Now, ye just gods, if vengeance you prepare,
Now find the guilty head.
Enter Euphrasia, from the Tomb.
Eup. Virgins, I thank you—Oh! more lightly now
My heart expands; the pious act is done,
And I have paid my tribute to a parent.
Ah! wherefore does the tyrant bend his way?
Phil. He flies the altar; leaves th' unfinish'd rites.
No god there smiles propitious on his cause.
Fate lifts the awful balance; weighs his life,
The lives of numbers, in the trembling scale.
Eup. Despair and horror mark his haggard looks.
Do you retire,
Retire, Philotas; let me here remain,
And give the moments of suspended fate
To pious worship and to filial love.